skot AT izzlepfaff DOT com
Tuesday, 23 June
The 40-Year-Old Carniwhore
Thursday afternoon, I was standing with my friend Will in front of a cooler the size of a footlocker. Larger than a footlocker. A leglocker? Whatever. Will opened the casket-sized thing, and I beheld a pig.
A dead pig. Gutted from stem to stern, its legs splayed and pointing upward as if in some sort of porcine supplication. It grimaced hopelessly at the ceiling like a distressed, eviscerated prostitute. It was like a scene out of Se7en, except I wasn't repulsed. I was suddenly hungry.
Will and Eric had earlier that day picked up the freshly dressed pig and painstakingly rubbed it down with a mixture of cumin, brown sugar, cider vinegar, garlic and cinnamon, all of which were crawling eagerly into my nostrils. Despite its ghoulish appearance, it smelled divine.
"Eric tried to hold it up while we rinsed it off before rubbing it," Will explained. "But it weighs over 70 pounds. He couldn't hold it. You should have seen us trying to jam the garden hose into its asshole." I was suddenly less whetted.
"It's disturbingly like human flesh to the touch," Will continued. "It was really weird putting the rub on its tongue." Okay, not hungry!
But it wouldn't last. I would succumb. You see, this Sunday I celebrated my 40th birthday. (My actual birthday isn't until, well, right now, but I wanted people to actually attend the party.) And now that we've cleared out the vegetarians--I'm sorry, you guys--I think it's clear that in said celebration, we roasted an entire fucking pig.
It was Eric's idea. He started with the idea of a barbecue--"Maybe some ribs"--and soon escalated the idea into SPD (Singular Pig Destruction), which is a well-known variant on Mutual Assured Destruction. Will signed on shortly afterward, as Will is also a tremendous fan of putting various animals to the sword and to the torch. An unholy alliance was formed, and in the weeks of planning that intervened between the germ of the idea and its (literal) execution, I was to be treated with the sight of Will and Eric absently, evilly stroking their beards and talking about various rendition techniques with a certain unnerving gleam in their eyes.
A roasting box was procured for the big day, and invariably, as my friends arrived, their pupils would dilate as they beheld the giant box. "There's a pig in there?" they'd ask with wonder. If I were wearing suspenders, I would have snapped them insolently against my chest and rocked back on my heels and said "A-yup." Will and Eric, in the meantime, fussed endlessly over the entire operation, nattering to each other like barbarians discussing the finer points of skull-crushing implements. Inside the roasting box, the pig abided in peace, rendered fat pooling placidly inside its chest cavity.
The guests continued to arrive, most of them pretending to genuinely like me so they could sample their taste of giant pig. Some even brought gifts, despite my invitational directive that gifts were wholly unnecessary. "Unnecessary for you," some of them seemed to say, as the many bottles of whiskey I received were quickly dispatched, some of them by me. Dusty and Kirk, responding to an old, stupid running joke of mine, brought me an alarmingly enormous, veiny dildo and an autographed photo of Stockard Channing. It's best not to ask.
Towards the end of the cooking process, it came time to flip the pig over to crackle up the skin. As Eric and Will attempted this procedure, the pig's feet came off, and the nicely caramelizing carcass thunked back into the box. Eric and Will stared at the feet (in their hands--this was rapidly becoming an Abbott and Costello routine as imagined by Artaud) for a moment before declaring, "Well, nobody was gonna eat any fucking hooves anyway." The unfooted hog continued to stare without comment into the slate-gray skies, figuring, probably, Well, it's not the worst thing that's happened to me today. As if sensing emotional collapse on the part of the dead pig, Will took this opportunity to jam an apple into its mouth.
And after a while, Will and Eric declared the beast to be well and fully cooked; they pulled it from the box and took it into the kitchen to rest for a while. It looked like a giant, pig-shaped Rollo candy; the onlookers--everybody--gasped and oohed and ahhed. Upon setting it on the counter, Eric promptly tore off an ear and gave it to me; his first offering to the (near-) birthday boy; I wondered idly if they had irrigated the ear with the same assiduousness that they had spent on the thing's asshole. I wandered outside into the throng and held it up triumphantly.
"I got an ear!" I yelled witlessly. People cheered, because I know only slavering, brutal maniacs. My social life is like a Rob Zombie movie. I bit into the ear.
It was delicious. The skin had formed a lacquerlike finish, concealing inside a ridiculously luscious admixture of cartilage and fat. Never had hitting bottom felt so much like rocketing to the top. I passed the ear around to the assembled heathens, and they fell on it like starving hyenas. Orgasmic moans began to fill the air, and I briefly thought about Stockard Channing before returning to my senses.
Thanks to Will and Eric, of course. Thanks to my wife. Thanks to all my friends. Thanks to the luckless hog. Thanks, I guess, to time itself, that merciless fucking shit. Thanks for reading for all this time.
Thanks, Stockard Channing.
Monday, 15 June
Ass (The World Turns)
Coming home from work today, I caught up with a gal wandering down my street. I guessed she was in her twenties, but it was hard to say; I was walking behind her as she distractedly talked on her cell. She had remarkable pants, to the extent that she was wearing them, which is to say, she was barely wearing them. Now look. I'm not some creepy fucking letch. I'm just a dude trying to make his way home.
But I'm only human. A human heterosexual male. And normal, human heterosexual males tend to notice things like when random girls happen to be wearing their pants hanging halfway down their asses. Which is what was happening here. There was a good five inches of ass crack staring at me, and, once I gave up the idea of trying not to stare--which happened almost instantly--I also clinically noted a distinct lack of any evidence of underwear. I honestly found myself cocking my head to the side (why do we do this?) to verify that there wasn't even a hint of a thong strap concealed somewhere. Nothing. I continued to stare helplessly at the pistoning half-globes and stepped up my pace so I could pass her and make it all end. I felt terrible. I'm not voyeuristic at all, really, but Jesus Christ, how can you not notice?
As I passed her, I spied another detail. She had one of those front-loading baby slings on. With, of all things, an actual baby sitting placidly inside it, bouncing against her chest. Those dealies always make me think of baby vampires, where the child is poised at any moment to lash out at mommy's neck to feed on her lifeblood. This wasn't helping AT ALL. I caught part of the mom's phone conversation, which seemed to involve some complaining about a guy named "Davey." The child coldly contemplated the mother's unprotected neck. The mother's exposed ass presumably kept bobbing behind her exuberantly. I hastened my pace yet again, trying to put this unwholesome thing behind me, literally and figuratively. The third party continued to receive cellular castigations of the unknown, unloved enigma named Davey, and I scuttled forward, feeling like I had committed some mental form of frottage.
She gave me an inexplicably dirty look as I sailed past her, which made me feel even worse, for some reason. I wondered if I was, at that moment, a proxy-Davey, or if her half-ass had strange ocular talents that I'd never experienced before. The child on her chest stared at me liquidly, probably wondering how adroitly he (or she) could go after my jugular.
I'm turning 40 next week, as it turns out. I'm aging, yes, but I'm not decrepit or creepy or horrid. I mean, I'm working on it, but I've got a ways to go. I'm looking forward to hanging out with around 40 of my good friends while roasting a fucking pig for dinner.
What I'm trying to say is, lady, if you want to wander around Capitol Hill with your undead baby jouncing off your damn chest and your asshole winking at me in the sun, I'm going to look at it. Sorry, honey. But you'd look at it too.
Yes, this was an entire blog post about some insane woman's exposed ass. The internet is improving your life.
Tuesday, 02 June
Prejudgment Not At Nuremburg
Jack in the Box seems to be trying to dethrone Taco Bell as the purveyor of "most annoying fucking ads ever" lately. I'm speaking specifically of the stoner-centric ad where the asshole tries to order 99 tacos for two cents at the drive-through. These ads are nearly as insulting as Hollywood's upcoming summer lineup. Let's take a look.
The Taking of Pelham 1 2 3
Leaving aside the perpetual embarrassment that John Travolta has become; leaving aside the goodwill that Denzel Washington seems insistent upon squandering; leaving aside the residual greatness that Luis Guzman continues to exude despite appearing in one out of every three movies ever filmed including Hey, Don't Fuck My Butler!; the inescapable fact exists that this is a Tony Scott movie, and so it will be intolerably awful.
Scott has made approximately one and a half entertaining movies during his zombie reign--True Romance, which my friend Rory probably wisely suggests that benefits from a Tarantino boost, and Crimson Tide, which is a risible submarine movie that is more or less rescued by the nearly unbelievable straight-faced performances that are loaned to Scott interest-free in service to a patently ridiculous movie.
The Taking of Pelham 1 2 3, I am almost positive, will continue to drain my sympathy for Denzel Washington, and will also probably fail to feature a scene where John Turturro is doused with robot urine. And really, what other use is there for John Turturro?
I like Sam Rockwell, but it's a little precious to shoot a feature film where he just presses his ass against the camera for 87 minutes. Also, it's sort of irritating to give your movie a title that obligates asshole humor bloggers to say things like "M-O-O-N, that spells box office failure!"
What's that? Yes, I do hate myself.
FUCK YOU, HOLLYWOOD! That's YOUR job! I work too hard and too long to imagine things! That's all well and good for the French, who work like 8 hours a week, but we Americans demand you imagine shit for us!
Except that you imagined something with Eddie Murphy and Thomas Hayden Church. Say, would it be okay if I worked sixty hours a week until this film isn't in the theaters any more?
This might be the most awesomely bizarre collection of comedic talents ever assembled. Will blank-faced Michael Cera be able to withstand the incredible onslaught of muggery that will be brought by Jack Black, Oliver Platt and David Cross? Or will he succumb to the pressures of a John Turturro-like tsunami of robot-urine comedy-face? (Forgive me if I'm stretching this metaphor. I can't seem to let it go.)
You know, I actually like all of these actors, for all of their various foibles. I even have serious affection for Harold Ramis, who, for all his crimes, has made the world a better place with some of his earlier films. But this just looks like a catastrophe.
Hey, a chance for Francis Ford Coppola to redeem himself!
Or a different thing.